


as i took from the tree that was rotting

by Mirkstrolls (angrennufuin)



Series: Indigo Hunter [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, attempted murder of a child, cults being culty, the evil authoritarian empire looks considerably better when you've just escaped a deathcult
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-22 02:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20866958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angrennufuin/pseuds/Mirkstrolls
Summary: After a raid on a local horrorterror cult, the Policeradicator Department for Peace and Order rescue a teenager in the process of being murdered by her fellow cultists. Said teenager has some... second thoughts.





	as i took from the tree that was rotting

> **[CODENAME: FIREWALL]**  
7.5 sweeps//14ish Earth years  
_PDPO Headquarters, Malseka_  


Above you, a humming white light. Brighter than any candle: you cannot remember any light so bright and clear since before the cult took you. They let you wash the blood off your hands before they put you in here, but you can still see it caked under your nails. In your nailbeds. The light makes it look black. This room is made of metal and glass, and you can see the wards etched into the walls that prevent spells or psionics from working in here. It is... very cold.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

You look up. The troll across from you is dressed in an iron-gray uniform, clean Imperial lines; not angry, her face, not hateful. Not even, as the you've been taught to expect, coldly robotic and ready to _suffer not a cultist to live_.

...Pitying, instead.

“We’ve been trailing your people for years. What do they call themselves? Children of the Redeemer? They’re crafty ones – most of them fled when we turned up. Except the ones with you.”

Your hand creeps up to your neck, to the thick pad of bandages there. When the Imperials came, you were kneeling for the tattoo needle, hair pulled away from your neck so that Sister Nadloj could work. You barely noticed the commotion, until Sister Lorataga grabbed you by the arms, pulled you up–

“It wasn’t a murder-suicide,” says the Imperial. “They didn’t try to kill anyone else, not even the other children. What’s different about you?”

A knife at your throat, its bite a sharp and sudden pain – your own indigo blood gushing out over your hands, down your shift, matting your long hair–

The Imperial shifts in her seat. “You’re going to have to talk to us sometime,” she says.

Do you, though? You guess Sister Lorataga is dead, and everyone else they captured, otherwise they’d know that you don’t speak to _anyone_. And they took your notebook with the rest of the things you had on you.

“I understand you’ve indicated that you can’t speak out loud. My bosses say it’s just that you won’t.”

Of course. You pointed at your mouth and shook your head, covered your lips and your bandaged throat with your hands, you hadn’t even screamed when they pulled you out of Sister Lorataga’s grasp – but leave it to the Imperials to think you’re lying. 

There’s a long stretch of silence: you feel her eyes on you, but keep your gaze on the metal table. Then she slides a pad of paper across to you. Lays a pen on top of it.

You look up warily.

“Look.” She flips her hair, looks, suddenly, only a few sweeps older than you. She’s leaning in now, trying to catch your eyes. “As far as I can tell, the cultists tried to kill you and then left you with us. So however special you _were_ to them, you’re not now.”

You hadn’t even thought to fight back, after the first cut. It just hadn't registered. Sister Lorataga held you while Sister Nadloj stepped closer to finish the job--

Overhead, the white light flickers. Your vision turns briefly to static -- behind one of the dark glass walls, you hear someone yelp.

The Imperial’s talking again. Her eyes on you warily. “Our scans say you have some interesting psionics. We can help you train those. We can look after you. We can stop them from trying to kill you again. What do you owe them, really?”

Every member of the cult knows it’s better to be culled than to say anything to the Imperials. But your own blood is still on your hands. The wound meant to kill you hides behind sterile, white bandages. The glare of the overhead light might be pitiless and cold compared to the shifting candle-shadows of home, but it shows the entire room in sharp relief.

You can see clearly for the first time in what feels like forever.

You look up, setting your jaw. Picking up a pen, you write a few deliberate sentences on the pad, turn it back to face her.

_I don’t know why they wanted to kill me, but I know a lot about the Children. They say_ _I’m the heir of the Redeemer herself. _

You hesitate, pull the paper back. Add one more line.

_ What_ _do you want me to tell you?_

**Author's Note:**

> Might edit this later! It's _very_ short (wrote it for last Inktober) and kind of confusing. I have trouble writing things that aren't teenagers being embarrassed by their crushes, it would seem.


End file.
